Speedy Writing
by I am that Writer
Summary: Rick Riordan is stressed from deadlines while finishing writing his House of Hades story. Speedy, his terrier dog, and his family are all too helpful. A pretty funny idea I've had for a while now. One shot.


**So, this is a one shot of Rick Riordan writing ****_The House of Hades_****. I hope it's as enjoyable as I first planned it to be. I don't do disclaimers, but I just wanted to say: I have NOT met the Riordans. Their characters are all from my imagination. I have also NOT read ****_The House of Hades_****, though a few references are from the first chapter, and there are some mentions off of Rick's blog. Enjoy! Feel free to leave a review if you liked it!**

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_**– Speedy Writing –**_

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**I typed furiously, not even looking** at my hands as words filled the computer screen. Speedy's head popped up in between my legs and she began to whine, annoying me even more than I already was.

"Not now, Speedy," I said. I knew she wanted to go for a walk. "Just let me finish this chapter. . . ."

I read what I'd just written, then groaned in frustration and threw my head back, putting my hands behind my neck. Speedy's whines grew louder.

"Hey, Becky?" I called for my wife, who was supposedly in the kitchen making dinner. "Should Hazel kiss Leo before or after chapter forty?"

Someone walked around the corner, but instead of my lovely wife, who probably could cheer up even _me_ in the cranky mood that I was in at the moment, my son, Haley, munching on a chocolate ice cream bar, sauntered over to me.

Haley was my oldest eighteen-year-old son with dark-blond hair that desperately needed a haircut—but I'd purposely been ignoring that fact for some time now, though Becky nagged him about it all the time, remembering what it was like to be a young boy myself. My son could also eat like a horse, hence his snack at the moment, and wore a bored expression on his face. He walked casually over to my computer desk.

"Still working on that, Dad?" Haley asked.

"Yeah, just trying to get all the details right. What do you think, Haley?" I asked, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans.

Haley squinted over my shoulder and read what I'd just written. "Does that even matter?" he said in a monotone. "I mean, why work on Hazel's chapters? It's Percy and Annabeth I'd worry about. They fell into _freaking Tartarus_! Your fans'll be crushed if you don't get it right. And you know how they get when they're unhappy. You just got a hate text yesterday, from a little girl who somehow got access to your instant message, who just finished _The Last Olympian_, complaining about you killing off Luke. "

I wiped a tear away in remembrance of the horrible job I'd had, killing off Luke, even thought it was years ago, then turned to Haley and raised both hands in a "relax" gesture. "I'm pretty sure I've got that right. But what do you think of . . . ?" I gestured to the screen.

Haley read my paragraphs again, then shrugged. "It looks okay, I guess."

"I can't just be _okay_, this scene needs to be great, it's a— Gah, where's Becky?" I asked.

"Unpacking." Haley realized his ice cream bar was melting and licked some chocolate drips from the bottom.

"I thought she was making dinner."

"She was. She doesn't like the house like this." Haley shrugged. Then he noticed Speedy underneath my desk and noted, "The dog needs a walk."

Speedy whined in agreement.

I looked around and realized the house really was a mess. We'd just moved to Boston from San Antonio, into our "Athena House," and Becky was going crazy, tying to unpack and organize everything. Boxes and furniture were stacked all around. But I liked our new house. It had a great view from the roof, was really peaceful, and I liked my new writing office.

"Yes, Speedy's been whining for a while now, she really wants a walk. I'd appreciate it if you took on a manly responsibility?" I asked hopefully.

Haley shook his head, about to reply, when Patrick, my younger son, walked around the corner. His black hair was messy and his face looked a little tired. No doubt he'd stayed up late last night, reading some new library books he'd got recently and was hooked on.

"Pat, what do you think?" I asked, and he immediately came over to read my writing.

"Hmm, there's two typos there." He pointed to an _and_ and _then_ near each other, spelled as "ans" and "them." I hurriedly pressed the correct letters into their places. Good ol' Patrick, a better proofreader than even my editor. One time he'd asked if he could have ten dollars for every typo he found in my story, which had already been edited, and I agreed, thinking it was a joke.

Wow. That kid was made rich that day.

Haley jumped in. "I don't think 'heavily' really suits that sentence."

"Well, what do you suggest?" I asked, irritated, rereading said sentence. I thought it fit okay.

"Google it," Haley suggested.

"Hard, weighty, difficult," Patrick rattled off synonyms. Then he said, "Let me see the first chapter again?"

I scrolled up to the first page, then sat back and held my breath as my critical son read it over. "I don't know, Dad," he finally sighed. "Why don't you start off with an action scene? That gives too much away. You said you wanted to do something with those mountain gods, the _numina_ . . ."

"Really?" I asked, stroking my chin in thought, pondering Patrick's suggestions, as I always did. Ideas were already filling my brain. I _had_ wanted to use the _numina_; hmm, angry mountain gods . . .

Patrick's creative streak was also blooming, and he said excitedly, "Why don't you _literally_ start it with an action scene?"

"The first sentence?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.

"No, that's never good—but almost," he said. He tapped some sentences on the computer screen—black words filling white—most definitely leaving fingerprints; Becky hated that. "I like what you're doing with Leo, here."

"Hmm, I'll ask Becky, see what she thinks," I mused.

"Dad—_you're_ the writer," Patrick complained.

"Yeah, but you guys are like my secret co-authors; I don't know what I'd do without you," I admitted.

Speedy whined again.

"She really needs to go out," Haley reminded. He'd almost finished his ice cream.

I was hardly paying attention anymore, letting my brain go crazy with ideas at Patrick's new suggestion, leaning forward so my nose was almost touching the screen, my eyes boring into the letters.

Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned my head to see Becky. She looked tired and almost as stressed out as I was—though for totally different reasons.

"Rick, you know how I hate nose prints on the computer screens." She sighed. "Anyway, that annoying agent guy is texting you again," she said, holding up my phone. "He's reminding you that you only have so many weeks. He needs the manuscript soon."

"I know, I _know_ when the deadline is!" I huffed. "Can't you block his number or something . . . ?"

Becky shrugged. "I can try . . ."

"I thought you were going to cook dinner, Mom," Haley complained.

"Hey, _you_ cook dinner—leave your poor mother alone, she's busy enough already," I snapped, then sighed. All this stress was really getting to me . . .

"You doing okay?" Becky asked me. Her eyes flicked over my story. "It's looking good. You want me to walk the dog?" She motioned to poor, abandoned Speedy, who was still whining softly and nuzzling my leg.

"Sure, if it isn't too much trouble. Thanks, sweetheart," I said gratefully. She bent down to retrieve Speedy from under my chair. "She's probably hungry, too."

"I can manage her." Becky scooped the terrier up, then began cooing over her, as she always did. "Aww, you poor, abandoned thing. I'll take good care of you." She turned back to me. "Rick, honey, maybe you're working too hard. Maybe you should take a break, read some of that novel you've been going on about—_Best Served Cold_?"

"Maybe." I did feel wiped out.

I sent another longing glance at my book that desperately needed working on. There were still so many scenes to fix, chapters to edit, dialogue to put in . . . And, as my annoying agent constantly reminded me, I only had so many weeks . . .

But Becky was right. I had been working extra-hard lately—no doubt due to my upcoming deadline. Maybe I should take a break. I knew I didn't write nearly as well, overworked. And my so many wonderful, amazing fans would only accept the best.

I scrolled to the end of the story and read a few sentences. I smiled. I think the fans are going to like this.

Besides, I was so tired—exhausted physically and mentally, and kind of tired of this story for the moment. I needed a break.

I turned to Becky, who was scolding the boys on not cleaning their rooms.

"You know what, maybe you're right," I said, standing. "I am pretty tired. Tell you what, you walk the dog, then I'll help you make dinner. You can tell me what you think of this new idea of Patrick's."

Becky smiled and nodded. "That's a fantastic idea." She headed out the door with Speedy, who looked over at me, from my wife's arms, longingly, as though almost sad about leaving my story. Well, she could rejoin me soon, and I knew I'd have a knew burst of writing energy.

I stretched out my arms and looked back at my story, still up, unsaved, on the computer screen, as my sons left the room. I smiled. Yeah, it was pretty good. . . .


End file.
